Stop Press Murder

by Peter Bartram

  Praise for Headline Murder, Peter Bartram’s first Crampton of the Chronicle mystery

  I loved everything about this book. It is a fast-paced mystery, superbly plotted, and kept me guessing right until the end. Despite the murders, it is light hearted, easy to read, and perfect escapism. Sixties atmosphere oozes from the pages to enrich the whole reading experience. An absolute corker of a book.

  Wendy Storer Book Blog

  Headline Murder is a fun read with humour throughout – a literary version of Heartbeat but with a journalist lead, Brighton setting and more laughs. The strong supporting cast of colleagues, locals and feisty girlfriend help the story drive along nicely. An engaging and entertaining mystery.

  Crime Thriller Hound

  I found the novel a highly enjoyable and well-crafted read, with a host of engaging characters. It’s a very good choice if you need a break from the darker recesses of noir or the modern world.

  Mrs Peabody Investigates

  I thoroughly enjoyed this newspaper caper set in the early 1960s. There’s corruption, red herrings and the brief appearance of an insulting budgerigar. It read like a breath of fresh air and I can’t wait for the next one.

  Little Bookness Lane

  By the end of page one, I knew I liked Colin Crampton and author Peter Bartram’s breezy writing style. The author gives the readers much to enjoy both in the setting and characters as the story unfolds. Readers will immediately take to the protagonist, Colin Crampton, and will be eagerly awaiting his next investigation.

  Over My Dead Body

  …a little reminiscent of [Raymond] Chandler…

  Bookwitch

  The book provides a pleasant saunter through a bygone age of yellowed newspaper clippings, public telephone boxes and a Britain still coming to terms with its post-war legacy. This mystery offers an enjoyable but mild mixture of English eccentricity, wry humour, social commentary and misdeeds.

  Crime Fiction Lover

  A lot of fun. There’s a light touch to proceedings, as you’d expect from the use of the word “cozy” on the blurb on the back. So, an enjoyable entry into what I hope will be a long series. Highly Recommended.

  In Search of the Classic Crime Mystery Novel

  Headline Murder is a rather fun and well-written cozy mystery set in 1960s Brighton. Recommended for those who want a lighter crime read, with a genuine 1960s Brighton vibe.

  Northern Crime

  A skilfully constructed mystery that plays fair with the reader and holds the reader’s rapt attention from first page to last. Very highly recommended and certain to be an enduringly popular addition to community library mystery/suspense collections.

  Carl Logan, Midwest Book Review

  Superbly crafted and breezy as a stroll along the pier, this Brighton-based murder mystery is a delight. Headline Murder is the real deal, giving a wonderful insight into local journalism and capturing the swinging sixties to perfection. Bring on the next Crampton Chronicle.

  Peter Lovesey, award-winning crime mystery writer

  The story is a real ‘whodunit’ in the classic mould. The characters and the city of Brighton leap off the page newly minted but feeling like old friends. And don’t worry if you don’t remember the sixties because you weren’t even born then. There is none of the clunky scene-setting that so many writers find so necessary. Crampton takes you back effortlessly.

  M. J. Trow, acclaimed author of 40 crime mystery novels

  Headline Murder is an amiable romp through the shady back streets of 1960s Brighton. Its central character, the breezy journalist Colin Crampton, is very engaging and I look forward to his next investigation.

  Simon Brett, award-winning crime writer

  First published by Roundfire Books, 2016

  Roundfire Books is an imprint of John Hunt Publishing Ltd., Laurel House, Station Approach, Alresford, Hants, SO24 9JH, UK

  office1@jhpbooks.net

  www.johnhuntpublishing.com

  www.roundfire-books.com

  For distributor details and how to order please visit the ‘Ordering’ section on our website.

  Text copyright: Peter Bartram 2015

  ISBN: 978 1 78535 440 3

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016931754

  All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publishers.

  The rights of Peter Bartram as author have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This book is a work of fiction and all the characters, events and places, except for those clearly of public record, are imaginary and any resemblance to persons living or dead is unintentional and coincidental.

  Design: Stuart Davies

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY, UK

  We operate a distinctive and ethical publishing philosophy in all areas of our business, from our global network of authors to production and worldwide distribution.

  Also by Peter Bartram in the

  Crampton of the Chronicle mystery series:

  Headline Murder

  Prologue

  It was the morning of the first of June 1963 when the man in the blue blazer, cavalry-twill trousers and brown brogues crept into the amusement arcade for his final reconnaissance.

  The arcade on Brighton’s Palace Pier hadn’t yet attracted any punters. Later, the man knew, the place would be crowded as the suckers lost their money on the one-armed bandits and roll-a-penny machines.

  He slipped behind one of the metal pillars which hold up the vaulted ceiling and glanced around.

  At the far end of the arcade the brute of a caretaker prodded a long-handled broom viciously at a pile of litter. In the change booth, the fussy old dear fretted over the crossword in last night’s Evening Chronicle. As usual. Neither of them would take any notice.

  The man swallowed nervously.

  He crept out from the shadow of the pillar and crossed to the wall where the What the Butler Saw machines stood in a row. He stopped in front of one. He realised he was panting for breath. He inhaled deeply to steady himself.

  There was no doubt about his choice of machine. There never was. He already carried some pennies in his left hand. He noticed they had become slightly damp. No matter. He slipped one into the machine’s slot, clamped his eyes over the viewer and cranked the handle that started the film playing.

  Like most silent movies, the film starts with a title card.

  The card has been lettered by a calligrapher with a fine hand.

  The title reads: Milady’s Bath Night.

  The film cuts to the first scene.

  A young woman reclines in a bath brimming with soap bubbles. Only her neck and head are above water. Her fair hair is pinned up in looping curls.

  The film is old and grainy. It flickers with scratch marks. Black acid spots flash like ink blots. Despite this, it is easy to see the woman is beautiful. She has high cheekbones, a strong chin and eyes that seem just a little too big for her face. The eyes are heavily lined with mascara and dance with challenge. They say: If you dare me, I’ll double dare you.

  The woman lowers her head and looks up at the camera with a devilish smile. She scoops a handful of the bubbles, purses her lips in a kissing moue and blows the bubbles at the camera. Then she throws back her head, so the curls bounce on her head, and laughs.

  Her eyes shift from the lens to something behind the camera. Somebody, probably the cameraman, is speaking to her. In film-speak, she is “taking direction”. She gives a tiny nod. She moves in the bath and sets up a tidal wave of bub
bles. Some spill over the rim.

  Then she starts to rise. Her breasts are the first part of her body to break the surface. It is like watching a pair of porpoises leaping for joy.

  Then the scene cuts to an intertitle: “This towel is so fluffy.”

  Same fine calligraphy.

  In the next shot, the woman is in close-up. She is out of the bath and holding the towel to her left cheek. She has taken the pins out of her hair. It cascades in thick curls around her shoulders. She smoulders at the camera from the corner of her eyes.

  She has the satisfied look of a woman who has enjoyed the heady scent of the soap and made good use of the loofah.

  The scene cuts to a full-length shot. The woman has wrapped the towel around herself, over one shoulder, like a toga. In ancient Rome, she’d have caused a riot in the Forum. Then she turns sideways, looks back at the camera and tosses her head in a come-with-me gesture.

  Another carefully lettered intertitle flickers: “I must be ready for my beau.”

  In close up, the woman is looking at herself in a mirror. Her eyes widen imperceptibly. She gives a haughty toss of her head. She is happy with what she sees. She puts down the mirror and picks up a perfume bottle. She turns full on to the camera in half shot and sprays perfume behind each ear.

  Then she glances at her breasts. The nipples turn slightly upwards. It’s as though the porpoises are waiting for someone to throw them a fish. She winks and sprays perfume between her breasts.

  The scene cuts to a half-length shot. The woman is wearing nothing but the perfume. She is standing, head bowed, hands behind her back, like a bound girl at a slave auction. But not for long. She shrugs her shoulders as if to say: “That’s enough of that.”

  She turns to the right and begins to raise her left arm.

  And at that point the film abruptly ends.

  The man stamped his brown brogues. He drew back from the machine and cursed softly. He glanced around the arcade. The caretaker was loading litter into a basket. The change-giver was prodding a pencil in frustration at her newspaper.

  The man took another of his pennies, slipped it into the slot, lowered his eyes to the viewer – and started to crank the handle.

  Chapter 1

  The mystery of Milady’s Bath Night began with a riddle and ended with a tragedy.

  I was sitting at my desk in the newsroom at the Brighton Evening Chronicle, weighing up the pros and cons of putting brown sauce on my breakfast bacon sandwich, when my telephone rang.

  I lifted the receiver and said: “Colin Crampton, crime correspondent.”

  A man’s voice with a deep rustic drawl, which reminded me of haystacks and summer meadows, said: “If I mentioned the word ‘bunch’ what would be the first thing that came into your mind?”

  I said: “Roses, as in ‘bunch of’. Red for the love of your life. Yellow to welcome home a long-lost friend. White for your grandmother’s coffin.”

  “You’re not even close. Try again.”

  “Girls’ hair – as in ‘tied in bunches’. Tidy when she’s ten. Tempting when she’s twenty.”

  “That doesn’t count. I said ‘bunch’, singular.”

  “In that case, I can offer you a bunch of fives. As in the fingers in a fist – to give you a smack in the mouth.”

  Haystack voice said: “Tsk. It doesn’t pay to get tetchy with a police officer.”

  The man offering me advice – and possibly a story – was Ted Wilson. He was a detective inspector in Brighton Police Force. And one of the few ’tecs I trusted in the town. The rest of them spent more time looking for the main chance than for clues. Put it this way: if they were drinking in the same pub you wouldn’t leave your loose change on the bar.

  I said: “What have you got for me? Am I going to be yelling ‘Hold the front page’?”

  He said: “Possibly. It’s certainly bad news.”

  “The best kind.”

  “You’re a cynical bastard. When I have to deliver the hard word most people don’t want to know. They’d rather shoot the messenger.”

  I said: “If journalists shot the messenger they’d have to go out and find their own stories.”

  He said: “You won’t have any difficulty finding this one. There’s been a killing on Palace Pier.”

  I laughed. “Don’t tell me someone finally landed the jackpot on that one-armed bandit in the amusement arcade.”

  “This wasn’t a three-cherries-in-a-row kind of killing. It’s a blood-on-the-floor job.”

  I reached for my notebook. Flicked it open. Grabbed a pencil.

  “You mean murder?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Some time last night after the pier closed. But it wasn’t discovered until this morning. And there’s a bizarre touch.”

  “Which is?”

  “The body was discovered in the coconut shy.”

  “And hence your riddle about ‘bunch’. You were thinking of the song I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts.”

  “Yes.”

  “As sung by Danny Kaye. And played endlessly on the Billy Cotton Band Show.”

  Wilson chuckled. “I’d say, ‘Give the man a coconut’, if it wasn’t in bad taste.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The victim was killed by a blow to the head with one.”

  I scribbled a shorthand note. “Male or female?” I asked.

  “Coconuts don’t have a sex.”

  “The victim.”

  “Male, I gather.”

  “Why, ‘I gather’?”

  Wilson said: “I wish I knew more. But I’ve been frozen out of this case. Tomkins has taken it.”

  That wasn’t good news. Detective Superintendent Alec Tomkins hadn’t liked me since I’d run a story about a cigarette-smuggling ring he’d arrested. The three smugglers had been acquitted at Lewes Assizes when the defence pointed out that the police were unable to account for all the contraband ciggies they claimed they’d seized.

  I’d written that Tomkins’ case had “gone up in smoke”. He’d accused me of insinuating the lads at the cop shop had been treating themselves to duty-free drags from the evidence. Tomkins had blustered about a writ for libel. But the chief constable made it clear he wasn’t funding a lengthy court case out of the police budget.

  Instead, Tomkins settled for nurturing a life-long hatred of me.

  “That explains why I didn’t know about it,” I said.

  “There’s more,” Wilson said. “I’ve just heard that Tomkins tipped off Houghton more than an hour ago.”

  That was worse news. Jim Houghton was my opposite number on the Evening Argus, the other paper in town. By now, he’d be at the scene of the crime with Tomkins. The two would be laughing themselves silly over the right royal stuffing they were giving me.

  I said: “Thanks for the tip-off, Ted.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t do it earlier. Needed to get out of the office to make this call. You’ll know why.” The phone went dead.

  I replaced the receiver with mixed feelings.

  What Ted told me was enough for two paragraphs for the Midday Special edition’s “news in brief”. But Houghton would have a front-page lead in the Argus.

  As soon as my news editor Frank Figgis saw the midday Argus, he’d want to know why I’d been scooped. He wouldn’t be interested in hearing that Houghton had been given an inside track by Tomkins.

  Figgis wouldn’t sack me. It would be worse than that. He’d think up some creative revenge – like making me sit through endless meetings of the crime-prevention committee at the Town Hall.

  Or he’d book me as the guest speaker on the “ethics of the press” at the Women’s Institute in an inaccessible Sussex village.

  Or he’d make me interview a retired police-dog handler with bad breath and dandruff.

  Or the dog.

  To avoid any of those horrors, I had to find an angle on the story that outpaced the Argus in time for our Afternoon Ext
ra edition. That meant I had three hours to turn the story around.

  I grabbed my notebook and headed for the door.

  The bacon sandwich would have to wait.

  Chapter 2

  I barged through the newsroom’s swing doors, clattered down the stairs and charged out into the street.

  An Evening Argus delivery van sped round the corner. It was on its way back to the print works after collecting yesterday’s returns. It missed me by inches. The driver was the one with the pork-pie face and tattoo of Diana Dors on his right forearm. He took his hands off the steering wheel, held his nose and pulled an imaginary chain. I couldn’t be bothered to semaphore an insolent reply. Anyway, Diana would have thought of something even filthier.

  I was too busy pondering the trouble a murder can cause a reporter when he’s not first on the scene. (For the victim, of course, it’s the other way round).

  It would have made Tomkins’ day to give Houghton a head start on the story so that I would look bad. He was probably hugging himself with delight. So I’d need to find a way of catching up on the lead Houghton would already have built.

  He’d have been first to interview the police. First to view the murder scene, if the cops let him in. And if they wouldn’t, Houghton wasn’t averse to slipping the duty officer a fiver. For tickets to the policeman’s ball, of course. In his time, Houghton had bought enough dance tickets to pack out the Saturday-night hop at the Corn Exchange.

  Houghton would have been first to get the name of the deceased. First to visit their nearest and dearest and pick up the tearful quotes. First to beg a photograph of their sadly departed. (Or quietly pocket one from the mantelpiece if they were too distressed to dig out the family photo album).

  I’d be limping along a couple of hours later, after everyone had got it off their chest and thought they wouldn’t be bothered again. First time was a duty, second time an intrusion.

  So the police would be skimpy with their answers. They’d think twice about letting me see the murder scene. Even if I bought a trumpet and promised to play the mambo at their ball.